Something is going on with AT&T Wireless and I’m getting pretty fucking fed up.

Over the last week, I’ve had more calls drop than ever before in my entire LIFE. Even more than the time I was driving around a mountain in New Mexico and swerved to miss hitting a cow and nearly drove off the cliff. But that’s a story for another time…although the punchline goes something like this…I had ZERO cell phone reception.

Anyway, I cannot carry on a fucking conversation without getting cut off in the middle of my fucking sentence.

And I’m about to stab someone in the bicep. I’m looking at YOU, AT&T!

What is your deal? And why do you HATE ME?

I now present my most recent phone conversation.

Ring. Ring.

Hello?

Hey, fellow AT&T subscriber!

Hey you! I was just going to call you.

Really? What’s up?

Well, I had my ultrasound today and I’m having a…..

Beep. Beep. (Call failed pops up on the screen–which is code for “Hi, welcome to AT&T Wireless. We’re sorry your call was dropped, but we like to dress up in drag and have sex with monkeys. Have a nice day!”)

Ring. Ring.

Hello?

God, sorry. I lost you.

It’s ok. I was just telling you that I’m having a….

Beep. Beep. (Call failed)

OH MY FUCKING GOD!

Phone rings.

Hello?

Hello, Shauna. It’s your doctor calling.

Oh, hi.

I just wanted to call and tell you that your test results came back and the spot on your chest was…

Beep. Beep. Call failed.

WAS WHAT? WAS WHAT?

AAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I figure at this point I have 2 options. A) Throw my phone out the car window; or B) Drive my car into the cement embankment that’s up ahead on the right. I would have to cross over three lanes of traffic, so that’s a little inconvenient, but I’m willing to do it. Either way, AT&T is still having sex with monkeys.

Ring. Ring.

HELLO.

Hey. We keep getting cut off.

I know. AT&T is fucking with me. But it won’t beat me. Quick. Tell me what kind of tumor you’re having.

What?

Oh god. I’m sorry. I was on the phone with the doctor’s office before I got cut off and he was telling me what the spot was on my chest. I imagined he was going to tell me it’s a tumor and that I’m dying from skin cancer.

Oh Shauna. Don’t think like that. I’m sure he isn’t going to tell you that.

You’re probably right. I’m just being dramatic. As usual. Anyway, enough about me and how I’m possibly dying. I wanna hear all about your awesome life. Tell me. What are you having?…..WAIT!

What is it?

Just wait for it.

Wait for what?

The phone to cut off. I feel it coming on. Yes. It’s going to happen any second. Wait for it.

(silence, silence, silence)

I don’t think…

SSSHHHHHH. Don’t say anything. Because the second you start to tell me what kind of baby you’re having it’s going to happen.

I think there’s something wrong with you.

You might be right. But we’re not going to talk about me. This call is about YOU. Do you think they’re listening?

Who?

The people at AT&T. They’re waiting for the right moment and then they’re going to drop the call. I think I even hear them breathing.

That’s me.

Oh.

I’m gonna let you go.

Beep. Beep. (call from doctor interrupts)

Ooh, this is the doctor calling. I gotta get this.

(Sigh) OK, maybe I should text you what I’m having?

Yeah. Whatever. Love ya. Bye.

(clicks over) Hello?

Shauna? This is your doctor again. We got disconnected before.

Yes. We did. AT&T is a crack whore.

I beg your pardon?

Uh…so do I have skin cancer? Is it a tumor? Please don’t tell me you’re going to say the word tumor. Am I going to die?

(laughs nervously) The biopsy came back normal. You don’t have cancer.

Oh thank you. I’m so relieved.

But you should know that….

Beep. Beep. (Call failed)

Should know what? Should know what?

Beep. Beep. (text message from pregnant friend)

I’m having a boy.

Beep. Beep. (second text from pregnant friend)

I think you need to be on medication. Just a thought. Also? I’m pretty sure AT&T is not out to get you. Hope you don’t have a tumor. Call me when you’re normal again.

Pfft. Yeah. Like THAT’S gonna happen.

But Yay! A boy!

Note to AT&T: I hope you get crabs from all the monkey sex you’re having. And, you look fat in that dress and your shoes are ugly. Have a nice day.

When I was a little girl, I thought babies came out your belly button. I didn’t exactly *know* how this was possible since your belly button is like, well, the size of a belly button. But I didn’t question it. It was just a fact of life and not something you worried about. You just went to the hospital when it was time to give birth, the doctor put you to sleep, and yada, yada, yada, you had a baby. AND, you knew what kind of baby it was by the color of blanket it came wrapped in. Yes, I thought babies came with either a pink or a blue blanket. Out your belly button.

And this was when I was thirteen.

Stop laughing!

You should’ve seen my reaction the day my friend Amy was at my house. We were in my room, sitting criss cross on my bed where she proceeded to tell me the whole sordid story. The REAL story. It terrified me beyond all comprehension. I vowed right then and there that I would A) Never have sex; and B) Never have a baby. Yes, I am aware *now* that you have to do the first thing to get the second thing, but like I said…Not the sharpest tool in the shed.

And really Amy? You just *HAD* to go and ruin it for me, didn’t you. I was *fine* living in my state of absolute and utter denial–thinking that babies came from swallowing watermelon seeds. I wasted SO many summer days making sure all the seeds were removed from my brother’s slice of watermelon–because I felt like he was too immature and irresponsible to care for a baby. And then only to learn the truth. Well, I hope you’re happy.

You told me the truth about sex and about giving birth. And I’ve never fully recovered. Thanks for THAT.

Lucky for me, my kids won’t have to wonder about where babies come from. In fact, they can eat all the watermelon seeds they want without worrying about growing a baby in their stomach. Because now, we have these…

Look! The baby is waving at you!

Why is the placenta bigger than the BABY?

Oh my god, will someone please cut the cord already?

I’m pretty sure that if I showed these dolls to my kids they’d never have sex. That’s why I’ve ordered all of them.

So…I turned 40.

It was uneventful. Well, except for the 583 emails I received wishing me a Happy Birthday. That? Was awesome. (and thank you. really)

But mostly? It was just another day.

I woke up. Made the kids’ lunches. Drove them to school. Got cut off by an asshole driver who was *clearly* in a way bigger hurry than me.

Went to the gym. Got on the elliptical machine for 40 minutes… and then was subjected to an ass beating by my trainer. Ah. Bliss.

Came home.

Showered.

Got dressed… which included drying my hair, applying makeup, and putting on a BRA.

Then.

I did what every other woman does on her 40th birthday… I went to renew my driver’s license.

Yes. I’m *that* person.

In my defense I didn’t realize that my license was expiring on my birthday until the TSA agent at the airport kindly pointed that out to me last week.

Fuck.

And normally I wouldn’t be in such a rush to renew my license, but I must get on a plane again next week. And the week after that. And I may be wrong, but TSA doesn’t joke around with expired licenses and containers filled with raccoon sperm.

Trust me.

So.

To the DMV I went.

I walked into the dimly lit building, which by the way, smelled like the inside of a tennis shoe worn by a sweaty homeless guy from Louisiana (no offense to actual Louisiana sweaty homeless people who wear tennis shoes) and immediately noticed the line.

Jesus. It was LONG.

Like long long. Like so long you want to slit your wrists. Or the very least, pluck out your pubic hair, one by one. If, you know, the police wouldn’t arrest you for public indecency. Not that I would know anything about that.

Anyway… So I’m standing in the LONG line and about an hour into it, my eyes meet with a young guy standing behind me.

“Have you adjusted yet?” He asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Since you got out?” He seemed puzzled by my response.

“Got out of where?”

“Don’t you remember me?” Now, he’s clearly offended.

Blink. Blink.

“From two weeks ago? We rode on the van together?”

I had no idea what to say. Who WAS this weirdo? I don’t ride in VANS. Jeez.

“You don’t remember talking to me when we were being transferred to the Mansfield jail?”

What the what? Jail? ME? “I wasn’t in jail. You have me mistaken for someone else.”

“No, I don’t think I do. It was definitely you.”

I could feel my blood pressure begin to rise. Huh. I guess this comes with turning 40. Weird. “Look, I wasn’t in jail two weeks ago! Or two weeks before that! Or, EVER!”

There was an awkward silence. And also? COULD THIS LINE *MOVE* ANY SLOWER??!!

And then I let out an audible sigh. Good. The interrogation seemed to be over.

“Are you sure it wasn’t you? Because you LOOK just like the girl who sat next to me on the van.”

“Oh my god. Was the girl arrested for drunk driving? Or for killing her husband?”

Laughs. “I think she was arrested for theft.”

“Yeah. That wasn’t me.”

“Hmm. Wow. Well, you sure look like her.”

“You probably have me mistaken for Britney Spears.”

“Nope. That’s not it. You look like the girl from jail.”

“Oh really? Well, your mom looks like the girl from jail.”

Yeah. So… It was pretty much like every other day.

Minus the me wearing a bra thing.

I AM 40.

This is me shooting imaginary Botox in my face

(Tune into Aiming Low today for my Big 4-oh shit post)

Something has gone terribly wrong.

WRONG, I TELL YOU.

People. Are. Disgusting.

And also? They hate me. All of them.

Especially those who enjoy picking their nose in public.

(Hold please while I vomit from the visual picture that is BURNED IN MY BRAIN FOREVER)

But I may be jumping ahead. So let me start from the beginning.

The other day I boarded a plane, settled in my seat, and began flipping through the pages of People magazine. Soon after, the plane zoomed down the runway, and I began my ritual pre-takeoff prayer. The one that goes like this. Dear God. Please don’t let this plane crash and I promise to be a better person and go to church. OK, so maybe I won’t *go* to church, but I will try and drive by church more often on my way to brunch. OH! And I promise to stop running down squirrels on purpose. But really? Squirrels? Could you have *made* a freakier animal? C’mon God, you can do better. Alright, thanks in advance for the not crashing thing. Amen.

So after I’m convinced that the plane is safely in the air (which *still* baffles me–I mean how in the hell is it possible that a building can fly?) I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The person sitting one row up and across the aisle from me was picking his nose. And I’ve seen my share of booger pickers in my life, trust me. But this was like something I’ve never witnessed before. This guy was a pro. Like, he does this for a living. And man, did he come prepared. He wore a ball cap that he pulled way down to cover his eyes. But dude, that doesn’t make you invisible. WE CAN STILL SEE YOU.

I looked away and silently gagged. After I was sure he was *done* I turned back around and started reading my magazine. But something distracted me again. It was the booger picker. He was at it again. But this time, he had his pinky shoved up his nose and he was going for the gold. I gasped and tried to think happy thoughts. Puppies. Rainbows. Cupcakes. Boogers. SHIT!

I covered my face with my magazine and willed him to stop. And then I wondered if I had anything in my purse I could stab him with. I used to carry a switchblade and a set of nunchucks in my purse but because of the fucking terrorists, I had to start putting them in my checked bag. Stupid terrorists. They have to ruin *everything!*

Just then the flight attendant came down the aisle with the drink cart and I practically tackled her. “I’m gonna need some wine, stat.” She looked at me, gave a quick look and said, “you’re gonna need TWO.” Even SHE knew what was happening right in front of me.

As soon as she passed I glanced at booger boy and he was at it again. This time, he was using his ring finger. The one that donned a wedding band. Immediately I felt sorry for the poor girl he called wife. And then I wondered if she knew about his in-flight activity.

“Hey honey, how was you trip?”
“Great! I picked my nose the whole three hours. It was totally awesome.”
“Oh, babe, that’s great. Welcome home. Please wash your hands before you touch me.”

By the end of the flight booger boy had every single one of his digits in his nose. When I wasn’t completely grossed out I was in awe. Who knew picking your nose could take up so much time. And also, who has that many boogers? I almost feel like I’ve been jipped!

This would normally be the end of the story, but since booger boy, I’ve been privy to about 4 other public booger pickers. It’s like an epidemic.

You know how in a lot of restaurant bathrooms there’ll be music playing?

Well, recently I was in one where instead of playing music, a man was translating *common* English phrases into French.

The first thing I heard him say was, “I would like to get to know you better; you seem to have nice bones.”

When I heard that I was all… HUH?

And then the very next sentence was, “I like your robe; I bet it would look great on the floor.”

At this point I’m like where the hell am I?

And then I remembered. I was in Las Vegas.

It made perfect sense.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I could SO write for Rosetta Stone. I mean, who better than *me* to come up with *common* English phrases to be used in translation CDs.

Here are some that I came up with.

Ahem.

Your face is so pretty that I would love to staple things to it.

Dude. I could do this ALL DAY LONG.

Anyway, Rosetta Stone, if you’re reading this, I’m available for hire. I’m cheap. And I’m easy. Just ask anyone who went to college with me.

(I’m totally kidding, Dad. I’m not *that* cheap)

I didn’t know I would grow up to be a writer. In fact, becoming a writer didn’t come up until I was well into my thirties. I mean, I always made awesome grades on my high school English papers–my teachers would comment that I had a unique way of telling a story. Still, it didn’t click with me that this is what I should do until years later.

My junior year in high school I took an anatomy/physiology class and really loved it. I became a total science nerd. I even went on a field trip to the medical examiner’s office where we watched an AUTOPSY.

While my classmates were gagging and shifting uncomfortably in their seats and even shielding their eyes, I was fascinated. I couldn’t get enough.

That was it.

I’d made a decision.

I was going to be a doctor.

Me.

A doctor.

Please stop laughing. Seriously… STOP LAUGHING!

So, my senior year I changed my entire schedule around this new career path.

I applied to Baylor University and it was decided. I was going to be a doctor. Never mind that I didn’t have a clue what that meant. But I sure did sound smart. My family thought I was a genius. (OK, I may have made up that last part)

What I also need to tell you (because now you’ll be all… Oh, I get it now) is that my boyfriend at the time may have had some influence on my new career choice. He was a year ahead of me and already at Baylor. HE was pre-med and had ALWAYS wanted to be a doctor.

So I *may* have thought, what the heck, I’ll be a doctor too.

All this is to say I HAD NO IDEA WHAT I WANTED TO DO WITH MY LIFE. And I’m also pretty sure that if I’d been dating a bull rider during that time I would be writing that I had always aspired to be a professional bull rider.

Thank God for small miracles…and the fact that guys in Wranglers and cowboy boots don’t do it for me.

Anyhoo, let’s just say that after the first semester of my freshman year I realized that there was no way I could be a doctor. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG YOU HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL FOR THAT SHIT? And the math involved is insane. I mean, I had this professor I called The Smiling Assassin. She was Chinese or Japanese, I couldn’t tell, and she hadn’t been in the US for very long and so I couldn’t understand the words that were coming out of her mouth. Like ever. She would be talking and I would look around the room to see if anyone else was as confused as me. She’d scribble on the board while excitedly thrashing about and pointing here and there and….all of the sudden she’d turn and face us (all the while with a huge grin on her face) and say, “Ho-kay. You got it? Any quet-chons? Ho-kay! Moving on!”

And that was it. She’d move on. Except YES, I had questions. I had lots of questions–one of them being “WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING IN HERE?” Because it appeared that everyone else was following her except ME.

So I did what anybody in my situation would do and I switched my major to Corporate Fitness.

What’s Corporate Fitness you ask?

I have no idea but at the time it sounded very important.

Plus I was under the impression that I would get to work out a lot and get college credit for it.

Not so much.

That also was a science degree which required me to take ridiculous amounts of math. Math that I would never use during my lifetime but was somehow key to my success.

God I hated college. Well that’s not true. I hated going to classes. I LOVED hanging out and partying with my friends. Dude, I aced that part.

Anyway, long story short, I didn’t graduate from college. I meant to, I really did, but I seriously had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. So I just moved home during my junior year, got a job, and never looked back.

Oh yeah, and then yada, yada, yada, I became a writer.

By the way, My then boyfriend DID in fact become a doctor and I’m happy for him. I mean, had he followed MY career path he’d be spending most days at his keyboard, talking about his vagina on the Internet.

I think he made the right decision.

**Be sure to go over to Aiming Low today and read about my toilet issues. God I’m important.**

I have this friend. You may have heard of her… Barefoot foodie?

Well, she’s an insanely talented writer. You know, one of those annoying types who doesn’t even have to *try* and be funny? I would hate her if I didn’t want to lick her forehead most days. OK, every day. And dude, I totally have. She tastes like rainbows.

Anyway, her website is made of awesome and every story she posts has me peeing my pants.

I totally want to be her when I grow up.

But! This story isn’t about how great she is, but more about her creative process. I’ve been in the room with her while she’s composing a post and it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced.

Imagine this… she’s at her laptop, type-type-typing away… and all of the sudden, she’ll turn around and yell, “Quick, what’s an animal you wouldn’t want crawling up your ass and laying eggs?”

And in my head I’m all…”Um…none of them?”

But that’s not what she wants to hear. She really *wants* you to name an animal. Like you don’t have a choice–*some* animal is going to crawl up your ass and lay eggs. You just don’t want it to be THIS animal.

So I say, “A porcupine?”

And instead of asking the obvious next question which would be, “Do porcupines lay eggs?” She says, “Yes! Perfect!” And then turns back around and begins furiously typing again.

Next thing you know, she’s written the funniest fucking story which includes an up your ass egg laying porcupine.

Unbelievable.

This whole process has happened several times over the last year ever since we became secret lovers besties, and she just so happened to return the favor a few minutes ago.

We were talking and I was feeling uninspired. I asked her to quickly name 5 words off the top of her head so that maybe it would spark some speck of imagination in my achy brain.

Her five words were:
theft
water
planes
weird
nerds

Um… Yeah. I got nothin. Clearly, I’m not as talented at this writing thing as she is.

Dammit.

****

OK, it was hard to pick a winner of the most embarrassing public fart story because THERE WERE SO MANY GREAT ONES. But after much deliberating and arguing with The Dad, we decided that Michelle C totally deserves to win because DAMN, that shit was embarrassing.

So YAY you!!

Michelle, email your home address to shauna@shaunaglenn.com and I will send you the Target gift card and a year supply of Beano.

Thank you everyone for playing along!!!

Here is a conversation I had with my dad yesterday while driving to Houston (for the Mom 2.0 Summit):

“Hello, Father.”

“Hello, Daughter. (Laughs) I wanted to call and tell you about a Shauna moment I just had.”

“K.”

“I was getting a massage awhile ago and all of the sudden I needed to fart.”

“OH MY GOD! THAT’S MY BIGGEST FEAR!!”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I called it a *Shauna* moment.”

“So what did you do?”

“I clenched my butt cheeks really tight and held it.”

“That must have been awful.”

“It wasn’t that bad. It made me laugh though because I thought about how you’d be dying.”

“Oh my God, if I farted while I was getting a massage I would seriously kill myself.”

Laughs.

“So you were able to keep it from coming out?”

“Until I left the room. Then I letterrip.”

“That’s totally disgusting.”

“You love me.”

This is true.

Would love to hear YOUR embarrassing public fart stories. The winner (as decided by The Dad) will receive a $50 Target gift card and a year supply of Beano.

Contest ends Sunday at midnight. The winner will be announced Monday.

May the farts be with you.

Last week we had record snowfall. 12 inches in one day. You may be thinking “that’s no big deal,” and if you live in… oh I don’t know… A PLACE WHERE IT SNOWS… I would agree with you, but this is North Texas. We don’t get snow. Like ever. Like when it snows, the cities shut down. Shut Down. Because we don’t have the tools, equipment, machinery, the know-how…. to deal with it. It tops the news, there’s 24-hour Winter Weather Blast team coverage on all the major networks, it even breaks into shows like Grey’s Anatomy, for updates.

It’s all very dramatic.

It reminded me of the summer of 1980.

I was ten years old and at day camp. If you don’t know, day camp is the place your parents send you to while they’re working BECAUSE THEY HATE YOU.

I don’t have a ton of brain space dedicated to memories of day camp–probably because I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to block it out–but I do remember this. One fateful day I didn’t get to eat my lunch.

And as you already know, food is VERY important to me.

It’s not like my camp counselor threw my lunch away as some way of torturing me. No. She took my lunch and threw it in the trash bin BECAUSE THERE WAS MAYONNAISE ON MY SANDWICH.

You see, this particular day, June 26th, 1980, the temperature reached 113. A hundred and thirteen fucking degrees.

And my counselor (being most responsible for her 18 years) was worried (I was the only weirdo whose mom put mayonnaise on her bologna sandwich) that I might get botulism.

She gave me a package of cheese crackers to replace my sandwich, but still, that memory sticks out in my mind forever as The Day I Didn’t Get To Eat.

But this story isn’t about the weather, or my parents sending me to day camp, or my lack of sandwich intake.

It’s about mayonnaise.

I love mayonnaise. But… and this will shock you… I didn’t have mayonnaise until I was an adult.

And do you know why?

BECAUSE MY MOTHER PASSED OFF MIRACLE WHIP AS MAYONNAISE.

This is a completely true story.

I grew up thinking Miracle Whip was mayonnaise when in fact it’s nothing LIKE mayonnaise. And that’s because Miracle Whip is totally disgusting.

But me? I didn’t even KNOW about the yummy that is mayonnaise because I was tricked into believing I was already eating it.

So that sandwich back in June of 1980? Did not contain mayonnaise at all. Nope. It was slathered in the impostor “salad dressing” known as Miracle Whip.

You know Miracle Whip is the work of the devil, right? Says so right on the label. 1/2 THE FAT AND CALORIES OF MAYONNAISE

Sacrilege.

Anyway, since my early twenties (when I was let in on “the secret”) I’ve never looked back.

Well, except for when I go to my mom’s for dinner.

We were over there not too long ago and she’d made my spinach dip recipe. I took a bite and knew immediately that something wasn’t right about it. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until…

“Mom, what’s different about this spinach dip?”

“Nothing. I followed your recipe exactly. Frozen spinach, Knorr vegetable soup mix, green onions, sour cream, water chestnuts, and mayonnaise.”

That was it. The mayonnaise tasted funny. It was like it wasn’t mayonnaise at all, but its impostor cousin, Ted. I went to the refrigerator and scanned the shelves. A-ha! There it was, right there on the second shelf. Oh you are an evil bastard.

I grabbed the jar and held it up for my mom to see. “This! Is not mayonnaise, Mother. How many times do I have to say this?”

“Oh, I know you say that. But it tastes exactly the same to me. I’ve been using it for years.”

“Yes, I’m aware that you’ve been using it for years because you tricked ME into believing it’s mayonnaise. And also? It tastes NOTHING LIKE MAYONNAISE. Have you ever even tasted mayonnaise?”

She laughs. “Of course! I eat mayonnaise all the time. I just like the taste of Miracle Whip better. And it’s less fattening.”

Wha, wha, what? There’s no fucking way it tastes better. This is not even up for discussion. Mayonnaise is the nectar of the gods. Miracle whip is made from the gism of a cow. True Story.

I looked deeper into the refrigerator hoping against hope that she had “real” mayonnaise. Holy gold mine, I found it. Way in the back, behind the jam and pickles, was the teeniest jar of mayonnaise you’ve ever seen. Seriously, it was travel size. (which is actually a really good idea)

I pulled it out, unscrewed the tops of both jars and then grabbed a couple of spoons. I scooped some of each on the spoons and handed them to her. “Here. Taste this and tell me one’s not better than the other. If you still tell me that you think Miracle Whip is better than mayonnaise, I’ll shut up about it.”

She tasted each one and made a face. “I like Miracle Whip better.”

Clearly she is Satan’s spawn.

Mayonnaise eaters of the world UNITE!

PS. After that record breaking day in 1980 every retailer in town sold T-shirts that read, “I survived the summer of 1980.” I’m not even making this up.

PPS. There’s no way Miracle Whip is better than mayonnaise.

PPPS. I don’t think you could even get botulism from leaving your sandwich in a hundred degree heat. But when it gets hot again, I will try it. If I can make my own botulism than I can use it as Botox and shoot myself in the face with it.

PPPPS. That last thing probably isn’t a good idea. But I’m known to Speak Before I Think.

PPPPPS. Oooh. New T-shirt slogan perhaps?